The Sixth Morning- a Sherlock Adventure
by JulesBurne
Summary: After Sherlock's 'death', John Watson is somehow drawn into a most peculiar case which leads him down a dangerous path. Molly begins to have feelings for one of her coworkers, but their meeting is no coincidence! Meanwhile, Sherlock's intuition puts him on a path to infiltrating a building of a terrorist who has plans which draw all your favorite characters together in great peril.


The Sixth Morning- a Sherlock fan fiction By Jules Burne

The damp of the London fog sunk into all who hurried along the city's streets, which began to come alive in the early morning. Two figures sat in a small café by the Thames, which was known for caramelized biscuits and fancy hot cocoa served with a golden spoon. A man standing outside by a lamppost burrowed further into a pilfered brown coat. The elements of the outdoors had taken a toll on his features, dirt caked along his jawline and matted hair drooped over a pair of bright, mysterious eyes.

As he watched, Mycroft handed over a thick, brown folder to the blonde man who sat solemnly. The man looked indrawn, but his countenance lay open like a book. Without warning, a sudden gust of frigid air blew a newspaper into the man, and he stumbled backwards, sending pain ricocheting up his spine. John Watson looked up suddenly at the man fumbling with the paper. _Sherlock is dead_, he assured himself, and turned back to his drink. The shadowy man then turned and vanished into the nearby traffic.

Molly was sorting papers for Richard, a friendly, recently employed doctor, when John breezed in the door, color in his cheeks.

"Brought you a biscuit." he offered.

"Thanks," Molly replied, "Is it cold outside?"

"Bloody nasty. Which reminds me- Mrs. Hudson made this, and it's not, well, suited to my tastes." He pulled out a canary orange scarf with a floral print, brushed off a few crumbs and awkwardly held it out. Molly set it on the counter and turned to file the papers. When finished, she looked up just as John walked out the door and gave a half-hearted wave. Molly frowned once he was out of sight and crammed it into a young nurse's mailbox.

As John walked to the next street, he began to whistle. It was a slow, lilting tune with little pattern to it. The taxi he hailed to Chiswick was depressing. The driver was tall and bearded and spoke only when absolutely essential. John got out in front of a set of wrought iron gates, checked he still had the folder and tipped the driver.

"Thank you, sir. Oh, and may God be with you!" he said to John.

"Pardon?" John asked, but the man just cackled and sped away down the road until out of sight. Unnerved, John pressed the button for the com in the old house up the hill and waited.

Sherlock was running. This was something he had been doing a lot as of late and having received a message though the homeless network he bounded down streets and back alleys. Juan met him underneath a bridge.

"Never seen a man so eager to get a violin." Juan smirked as Sherlock passed some cash into the street rat's hand. As Sherlock turned, Juan prodded, "Of course, there's something else you might want to see."

"Information, for an extra tip, is it now?" Juan raised an eyebrow and replied, "As always sir, hard earned cash indeed!" The master thief brought out a phone, battered and hacked and a video began to play across the screen. Two men stood on a patio of a restaurant as snippets of conversation flew by. Juan had taped this behind the dumpster of the restaurant, so only one man's face was visible.

"Why am I not seeing results currently?"

"They will be ready soon, sir" Said the visible man.

"I do not like waiting, you know that. I wish to move soon. It's not as though you cannot be replaced." The man visible paled just slightly. "You have five more days, perhaps four. Impressions count, so there must be no mistakes."

The back door of the restaurant opened as an employee came to empty the trash into the dumpster. The video ended as he shooed Juan away.

"The man facing you- do you know him, Juan?" Sherlock queried. It took the exchange of some more cash for Juan to give up a name, that of Charles Montley. Juan tried to prompt Sherlock for some more money, but he just smiled crookedly, craving the chase. Sherlock grabbed the violin, checked that his pocketbook was still in place, and then bounded off. Juan smiled and pulled out a photograph. "I am coming, Father. I have not forgotten." His words hung in the air like smoke.

Madame Barnes' butler haughtily took John Watson's coat and ushered him into the parlor. The splendor of the room was dampened by its many years and lack of care, as did the mistress herself. Small and gaunt, she seemed to almost vanish in the fur coat that she sat in.

"Are you the young doctor I was promised?" Her voice rang out surprisingly strong. Watson gave a small bow and replied, "Yes, Madame, I believe that I am."

"You'll have to forgive Christopher," She sniffed, "He isn't the most accommodating of men, but England's finest tea has been in order." John nodded and a moment passed before he brought up business, opening the file. He went over the pages once more, and Christopher brought in the tea. _How can such a cold man make hot beverages_? John thought. The butler gave him a look before leaving. The doctor took her pulse as she fixed him with her beady eyes. Her symptoms indicated only what he considered to be the flu, but as John wrote out a report, Mrs. Barnes spoke.

"You know, I've been also waking up in cold sweats," she began, "But one of the nights that I did get up I saw this figure- running from one bush to another in my lawn outside my bedroom window." She sat up in her chair, the coat falling like water off her frail shoulders. John paused, and sat transfixed. "Don't tell me that I'm seeing things because I'm not. Christopher chased him out to the road and he left a trail of blood by the road; the iron gates snagged him. I sent a sample off to be tested, and this came back." John reached out and took the proffered document.

"Broken collarbone from the fall," Molly was telling Richard, "also signs of excessive drug usage beforehand, leading to suicide." She drew the plastic covering back over the girl's head. Richard nodded reverently.

"The work you do is so fascinating. All these brilliant discoveries" he commented and motioned a high powered microscope. "Brand new worlds for your viewing pleasure." Molly smiled as he pressed on. "What do you think is the most interesting case you've ever worked on?" She sighed and propped herself back on the counter.

"Well," Molly started darkly, "there was a man who swallowed some needles who died two days later due to internal bleeding." He remained absorbed in every word. "But there have been a lot of cases." Suddenly she felt uncomfortable. "Hadn't you go check on some patients that are still living?"

"Oh, is that the time?" he said absentmindedly, "Well it has been an absolute pleasure, Molly. I'll see you later." He raised an eyebrow and a hand in farewell and left. Instantly relieved, she picked up some samples and locked the door.

Madame Barnes snuggled back into her coat and began to hum, which almost instantly turned into snores. The dark circles under her eyes were now as clear as day, outlining her cheekbones and turning her into what seemed like as a living skeleton. So John stood, took his things and headed for the nearest door. Christopher kept a small flower garden out back, the late blossoms still clinging onto life, but losing leaves rapidly. Pockets of spices grew here and there, and Christopher bent down creakily, his salt and pepper hair shadowing his face. Without turning, he twirled a miniscule leaf between his thumb and forefinger and addressed John.

"I grow these herbs. I have been making tea and serving Madame for twenty years in this house. We are family. Please do not suppose I am responsible, sir."

"I am a doctor, and I rely on science and reason. I don't assume you did." What looked like a half smile played on the edges of Christopher's lips, but vanished as quickly. "One question though." John asked quietly as if someone were to overhear. "Why is this a problem of Mycroft Holmes?"

"I think we have a new case, John." The plump pigeon looked at Sherlock warily. Tossing it another tidbit of bread, he continued to mumble on. "Even though I'm dead, you still go around trying to help, and putting yourself in danger." He leapt off the ledge onto the sidewalk, wincing. _Crap. _The bird hopped to and fro before fluttering off to perch on a railing. Grime from Juan's phone dusted his pores and cuticles. Very dusty, pale grime, almost certainly plaster. The grime from the bottom of the violin was also dusted in it just slightly, with a spattering of fingerprints. Oh Juan, where have you been? Taking care to preserve them, he started off towards the hospital.

St Bartholomew's was sparsely populated today and the nurse almost seemed excited to pump Sherlock for information. She sympathized with him, while squinting through bright green glasses.

"She was my dear aunt… Eileen. She wasn't really my aunt, but she was my neighbor growing up, you know? She was always the best at making Christmas cookies." He stifled a fake sob.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hewitt, such a shame too- the accident with her stove burned down her house and part of the one next door- was that yours?"

"Well, my parents finally got me out of the house." She gave him a thin lipped smile at the bit of humor and handed him a tissue, which he used to open the doorknob of the lab.

The computer scrolled hastily through the database. Nine different construction or demolition sites were available already in the area where the dirt sample type was found. Sherlock eliminated the four construction sites- the plaster was old, as shown by the presence of horse hair, used to support the walls at the turn of the twentieth century. Sherlock also scanned Juan's fingerprints. _Juan Montley_, the computer read_, Deceased 4/17/2011._ Looking for his father at a demolition site before stopping by to grab the violin?

The sound of two pairs of feet sounded in the hallway. Sherlock had just enough time to switch off the computer, brush away the dirt and jump behind a stack of steel grey bins in the corner. Molly and another man walked in.

"Molly, I was wondering if perhaps you might be interested in going to dinner with me for a night? I know this lovely place, if you're not busy." Richard asked. Sherlock cringed at the awkward tension which followed. The stunned look on her face registered it as well.

"Such… short notice." Molly faltered. "I have plans tonight, but perhaps tomorrow."

"It's a fantastic restaurant, I believe you will thoroughly approve." His beaming smile filled the room with cheerfulness. He nodded and left.

"You don't really like him, do you, Molly? Good girl." Sherlock exclaimed.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" She yelped.

"Your boyfriend seems a little too happy to me…" He mused.

"He is NOT my boyfriend! And why the bloody HELL are you here?"

"Research purposes, no harm. I thought you'd be willing to oblige me, but I'll be on my way. Oh, and don't go around trusting him, because I don't."

"So you're jealous now? Why don't you take your suspicions about innocent people elsewhere?"

"The dead don't get jealous, Molly, and if you don't mind, I'll take my leave."

"Well, I will!" She fumed and stomped out the door. Sherlock chuckled and scanned his fingerprint. _Sherlock Holmes. Deceased._

Molly wanted to tell John. So very badly. Walking by the London Eye, lit up in all its glory. _I do need you, Molly._ Looking at John, she saw that she could never tell him the truth if she wanted to save Sherlock. She almost couldn't bear it to be here, after today's events, but she kept her mouth shut and her feet moving. Eventually John broke the silence.

"Molly, I need your help. I have a case where my patient saw a man at night that had her blood for some reason. I'm not sure what to do now." Molly frowned.

"That's really strange. You've prescribed some medication, right?"

"Well, yes, of course. Some to ease her flu and some for the sleepless nights. But I feel as though it's my responsibility. Looking at their new security cameras, he hasn't come back. Just vanished."

_ "_You don't know what you're getting into; you were employed only as a doctor."

"I don't know. Christopher didn't understand why Mycroft is concerned. Somehow he stepped in and sent me as a doctor."

"He's entirely beguiling you to do his dirty work! It's definitely not your responsibility to risk your life for his plans!" A tourist couple turned and gave them a quizzical look.

"I'm not doing this for Mycroft, Molly." John's wistful statement concluded their conversation. Molly turned and tipped the violinist who had been playing softly in the background.

"Thank'ee ma'am." He tipped his hat to both of them and John reluctantly threw in a few dollars of his own, and then headed back to his flat.

Molly woke up in a beam of sunlight. As the clouds had lifted finally, the eastern sky was filled with bands of color. She rolled out of her flat with a cup of coffee and a fresh start. She even had a prime parking spot today at St. Bartholomew's.

"Good morning." chimed the receptionist. Molly found her mail and leafed through analysis sheets, updates, and the like. Among them she came across a sheet of medical records intended for Richard. She decided to drop them off to him in his office. He wasn't there just yet, so Molly put the records face up on the linoleum counter. The room looked hardly used, except for a small coffee machine plugged in the corner and a desk towards the corner and an orderly filing cabinet, which is why Molly noticed the file. The manila folder was just peeking out of his brown briefcase, her name labeled on the top in small lettering. Carefully, she peeled it open. Notes were taken on her movements, interests, comings and goings. The air grew heavy as she breathed. Replacing the folder, she headed for her own lab quickly and spent the day, which had started good, pacing with her thoughts.

The first demolition site that was a possibility was an old grocery store, the closest of the three choices that were in a range that Juan could've visited before swiping the violin. He gingerly stepped through the shattered glass and keep out signs. A rusty pipe dripped coolant into a puddle and remnants of an old foreman's lunch were being carried away by a busy bunch of ants. There was nothing to really see here. The third demolition site was of a factory complex, multiple buildings in varying forms of decay. Sherlock stole like a shadow behind the crates and giant machines. The area was sparsely populated and secluded from the public eye, but guards roamed here and there, bored with their lives. The compound itself, dusty and suspicious seemed inviting to him.

Sherlock succeeded in attracting a guard's attention with a rock tossed at some scrap. The unsuspecting man peered over the steel and stepped back with some disgust as a rat ran out. A similar rock helped Sherlock to knock out the guard and borrow his gun and uniform. There were three doors on the outside of the compound, one padlocked, one bolted from the inside which had not been used in a very long time, and the third had a guard standing post right outside. The guard, by his posture and the way he carried his gun, looked far more trained than the others and Sherlock would capture his attention too easily if he tried to get in either of the other doors. He guessed the best option for now was to search for a fire escape.

The same day John Watson visited Madame Barnes again. Christopher seemed more jolly, and the parlor seemed to sparkle just a little more. As his patron was not present at the moment, John helped himself to looking around the room. A small Christmas tree was set up in the corner, now shadowing a few wrapped boxes. One red one for Christopher and three smaller ones for Mr. Gibbs the heavyweight cat, who slumbered in a pile of knocked down ornaments. Spun glass stars twinkled on the highest boughs, but what caught his attention was a small wooden train on a lower branch. Turning it around delicately, he read the back. Engraved, it read _Stewart's 1__st__ Christmas. _As though a light had been turned on, John looked around the room now and looked at the pictures. There was Madame and a boy, visiting a park. Madame and an older boy, playing the piano. Madame holding a baby to her chest. In all the pictures, his hair was cropped short and his shirt was tucked neatly into his pants and secured with a belt. She held high standards for her child. Nobody else was visible in the pictures, and most were pushed behind things, there, blending into the room, as ghosts. Going back to the tree, he looked at the date. _December 25, 1987._

Madame Barnes breezed in from the other room, her blue eyes bright in the twinkle of lights. As she approached, John was shocked by how tiny and powerful she simply was.

"As you see, Dr. Watson", she spread her arms, "I seem to be in perfect health. Still, how kind of you to visit me."

"Of course, Madame. I wanted to make sure that all was well." John nodded.

"Perfectly splendid. I am sure that your services are no longer required. But before you go, a small gift from me." She handed him a red envelope and Christopher brought in his windbreaker.

Upon arriving back in London, John looked up all of Madame Barnes' medical records. Sitting down with a strong cup of coffee and his laptop, he scrolled through to 1987. Early March: a baby boy was born to Madame by the name of Stewart Payne Barnes. John opened his email and searched through his inbox, deleting spam until he opened an email. Four characters: 2100.

The twisted bit of steel which had been a full ladder was broken off a full twelve meters above the ground. Sherlock thought as he walked around the large building once again. The other guards barely glanced at him, but one watched him a little too long than he deemed comfortable. But when a large truck pulled up to the warehouse, all came alert. A man stepped out of the car and motioned to a fuel tanker rumbling up the path behind him. Men came out to hook it up. The guards watched them intensely as Sherlock scrambled up to the top of a bulldozer and climbed to the top. The twisted ladder was about ten feet away now. Balancing himself, he ran through some quick calculations and launched himself. The feeling of flying chilled him to the bone. Horror came as his feet missed the rungs. Out of chance, his hand latched onto the very jagged end. Blood began to wash over his wrists as he hauled his body up the wall. Dizzy and lightheaded, Sherlock rolled onto the roof of the factory.

The establishment that Richard had chosen turned out to be exemplary. The jovial host chirped, "Welcome to Launceston Place, may I please have a name?" She led them through a dining hall to their reserved table on the edge, where from Molly's view she could see most of the other customers dining. The entrées arrived at the fastest of speeds, spread fancifully on white platters. The food was savory and Molly found herself watching tourists a few tables over, avoiding his gaze. The couple squabbled loudly about which destination they would see before the night ended, hardly taking time to even taste whatever they were eating. Finally by the time dessert arrived, a bold lemon crème pie, Richard began some polite conversation.

"You know, we're on the campus of Richmond. Truthfully, I was a student here, but I was never able to stop in for dinner here, so I forgot about it until tonight." He paused.

"Well, I think it was a good choice." Molly filled in quietly.

"And a privilege to dine with a fine lady as yourself." He raised his fork and an eyebrow.

"You're very flattering, Richard." Molly said. They lapsed into silence once more, eating the last few bites. Molly relaxed a little and began to talk to him about some of the strange folk at the hospital she had recently seen. _Why am I telling him about this?_ She wondered. She stood up first to leave, and Richard paid the bill. As they left, he draped an arm over her shoulder, but she turned away and he immediately dropped it.

Much to John's entertainment, Mycroft had caught a cold. Not even the head of Great Britain's top security could be unsusceptible completely. His nose seemed almost as if it were to catch on fire as he honked it into his handkerchief.

"I trust that you've figured out why Madame Barnes' case was assigned to Yo-HOO!" John barely was able to suppress a smile as Mycroft tried to disguise the sneeze in his business air.

"Of course, but why is Stewart Barnes important to you?" Mycroft leaned forward.

"No normal minded chap goes and visits his mother in the dead of night to watch her sleep, and then bolts like a common thief." John ordered a coffee from the waitress. Mycroft fell into another violent fit of sneezing and some of the other customers began to take notice. He dropped into hushed tones and continued.

"As a smart man, Stewart went to college and excelled in multiple types of nuclear physics, biochemistry, and many types of sciences. We were pleased with his work as we employed him first to a lower department, but he worked his way into national defense. After about five years, his wife divorced him and died soon after of a genetic disease. She left a child barely six months old to a foster system. Then he was stockpiling weapons in his basement. Over the course of a month, he took steps to disappear off of every map. Our concern is that Stewart has a lot of our intelligence. He knows most, if not all of our men and would probably be willing to assist criminals for cash. Over the course of many years, he has been gradually pulling funds from his mother and other investments. We're trying to constantly watch through security every way out of the country, in case he tries to run."

John leaned back and nervously sucked in a breath. "But… he doesn't know me and you have some lead."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "Suit up, soldier."

It was around nine thirty that Richard dropped off Molly back home, and she ushered him inside. Layers of snow covered the lawn and drive and ice slicked the door and path. She took off her coat but didn't offer to take his. So he stood there uneasily scanning her kitchen with his eyes until Molly stepped in front of him.

"I had a great time." She beamed. "I would love to do something like that again." He reached out and she walked into his embrace. When she stepped back, she leveled out the gun from inside his jacket. Richard stopped cold and grew pale.

"Start spilling, I saw the file." Her voice was ice cold, any cheer gone, replaced instead by anger. Richard looked pained. "Of course, Molly just please put that down." She moved back from his hand and kept it steady.

A chink of metal rang out beneath Sherlock's feet as he slunk down the ventilation shaft above. Every fifteen meters grates opened into different shelved rooms in various forms of disarray. There was a metallic tang to the very air. Dried blood spotted the floors and plastic sheeting told Sherlock that these were likely the freezer rooms of a decommissioned slaughterhouse. Now metal scrap and boxes perched on the shelves left. At the end of the shaft, Sherlock took care to remove the grating and dropped down, swinging one leg over a rafter, then the other. The first shelf he landed on cracked and he nearly fell through. He worked his way down to the door, which was electronically locked. He peered at the buttons carefully. The numbers 2, 6, 1 and 8 were tarnished slightly and worn. Considering that it was the door to freezer room number six, he tried several combinations before 6812 yielded the door.

"It's OK Molly" Richard pleaded. He started to reach towards his pocket.

"Oh HELL no you don't." She spat and waved the pistol wildly

"It's just my wallet. I want to show you my badge. I'm a part time agent of MI5. I'm just here to guard you and gather information on another case while laying low. You're not in any trouble." She stepped closer as Molly reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. Their eyes never left each other's, ready to counteract any movement. She retreated back against the counter to open it up and look at the badge. _Agent Penton_, it read, or a _Dr. Richard Parke._ She sighed and gestured for him to sit.

The tune of Silver Bells rang out suddenly and Mycroft fumbled with the cell in his pocket. He raised an eyebrow and looked at John, then sat back and picked up the call.

"Hello, Molly. How are you this evening?"

"Well, funny you should say that, considering that you probably already know my exact location and everything, maybe even how many times my mother calls every day. Why Richard?"

"You mean Agent Penton. I felt he would be a precaution for your safety. Things can be delicate. I only wish for your utmost safety."

"What things? You should tell me, I have a right to know!" Molly foamed.

"Tsk, tsk, Molly. You should thank me. Dangerous criminals are on the loose. I am a little preoccupied at the moment." And Mycroft hung up.

"Wait- you've sent some guy to watch Molly?" John was incredulous.

"I only have my friend's best interests at heart. I received a threat a few weeks back and he is following up on that while keeping an eye out. I've also taken measures to make sure your flat is watched. But for now we have work to do."

"He hung up on me!" Molly stared at the phone. "Right then and there!"

"He does that a lot…" Richard started but backed off and finally took off his coat. Molly sat down on the ottoman and he knelt down in front of her.

"This will be over soon, don't worry." He assured her and took the gun from her limp fingers. "I'm going to be here."

"Thank you." She whispered and stiffly stood up and stalked off to the bathroom. He sat on the couch quietly and turned over the gun around and around in his hands.

The key to blending in is to pretend as though you belong and know where you're going. In this case, Sherlock needed to find a certain man. Voices came from around the corner and men followed those voices. Sherlock walked past them calmly evening his pace and studying their countenance. Two looked to be engineers and one was a mechanic by the look of it. The mechanic had a slight limp as well, wincing on occasion. By the state of their clothes, they had been here for a few months, but rarely went outside. They walked close together, and eyed him warily.

He could imagine them, smeared with grease, turning on him if they knew. After he passed, Sherlock rolled down his cuffs, now stained with blood. A few more bends and he found the plane. The lights were dim in the room and the mechanics held bright lights under the belly, diagnosing the inside thoroughly. Some seats had been stripped out, and lay in the corner, one occupied by a worker taking a short break. The wings were patched together, glimmering an array of alloys. Beyond the grinding and scraping of tools, nobody spoke, except one man. Charles seemed renewed with vigor. Now he stood tall and erect, formidable, instead of cowering before the unknown man. He spoke to the foreman.

"I cannot think that we could fuel up now, sir." The Scottish man said meekly.

"Double shifts tonight, then. I want all personnel working their finest. We only have two days left. She will be loaded after that. Remember, no flight tests. You will need to be precise the very. First. Time." He drew out the last syllable like a drag. Suddenly, a man ran up to the pair of them and saluted.

"We've been breached, sir."

The man John was introduced to asked John to be refer to him by his alias, Clay. Clay spread out on a table a map of the country and proceeded to draw symbols all over while muttering to himself. After a while, he seemed to remember that John was even there.

"Take this, Doc." Clay tossed him a bullet proof jacket and John caught it with his left.

"Looks like this is the real deal." He half-jokingly said. Clay raised an eyebrow and waited for John to put it on. After strapping in the final bit, John raised his hands. Clay suddenly took a flying leap and kicked him hard in the chest. John was flung across the room and slid down the opposite wall.

"Yeah, I guess you'll do." Clay laughed and spread out pictures on the table next to the map. "We're going to have to go in by foot here," he motioned to the northeast of a building, "as a team of two. The only way to get past security is to strike at the correct time, at the changing of the guard." He droned on, and John felt a quickening pace of heart. He felt exhilarated. "Any questions?" Clay asked.

"Clay, did you know this man?" Clay looked at him quizzically, surprised, but recovered quickly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. We served together for several years on many cases. He has an intriguing sense of humor, and always wanted to know what he had to do and what he was going to get. Those were good times; I never figured that I would be the man to take him down."

Breathing hard, Sherlock ducked into the freezer room once more and crouched in the rafters, in the corner. His pursuers raised their guns but didn't shoot. Then he walked in. The unknown man.

"Bravo, fantastic show! I'm not even sure why you're bothering to even try. Because" –here he paused- "because things are about to get a little dismally arctic." The armed guards walked out.

"Sweet dreams!" The man laughed and shot the keypad to pieces. A rumble of ancient machinery began to whir as the freezers began to work on full power.

The bright morning sun illuminated Molly's face. She stirred and threw on her favorite jeans and a light green blouse before heading out to the kitchen. On her couch, Richard lay fast asleep in a sideways sprawl, head on the ottoman, brown curly hair unruly. He had stayed up for a while, Molly supposed. His eyebrows lined his face well, and Molly felt uneasy for watching him like this. Even maybe admiring him. She had the whole day off, unless she was called in. She fried up some ham and eggs and brought out some packages of muffins and tea.

At the smell of food, Richard appeared a few minutes later.

"So…" Molly said, "What happens today?"

"Well, since I haven't heard of anything else better to do, I thought we should see the sights."

"Oh yes." She sighed, "I could use a day off."

Sherlock raced around the room looking into every corner, trying to find a way out. The door was busted, there was no way he could leave through there. Exhaustion pulled at every fiber of his body, and his toes were most certainly frostbitten. With the effort he had left, he hauled himself upward again and punched out the grate from the ventilation shaft again. Fighting the current of the air, he slithered upstream, clawing numbly at the insides. He collapsed again and drew into himself for a few minutes. Reaching out, he probed the shaft, and felt the next grate. He broke down to grate and threw himself out. Uncoordinated, he tumbled down bashing his shins, head, and finally his back. The pain lit up his vision for a moment of red hot agony, but faded into throbs as his vision began to black out. Then a figure from above stood over his form, as he struggled but could not move at all.

The day was bright with merry people shopping for their loved ones as Molly and Richard strolled down Columbia Road, watching the shops buzz with activity, selling antiques, drinks and almost anything out of small shops lining either side. The atmosphere was warm and happy, and Molly wanted to visit many businesses. She ended up buying a small porcelain reindeer figure at one. They sat down eventually at a small table and Richard brought out a small box, wrapped delicately with a silver bow perched on top. _Merry Christmas, Molly!_ read the inscription on the tag. She looked up at him, and a smile played his lips, daring her to open it. Almost as slow as surgery, she peeled back the paper and opened the box. A sweet little pendant hung on a silver chain and winked back. She fingered the chain lovingly and was speechless for what felt like a million years.

"I-I can't just take this." She stammered finally. Richard's hand sought hers and curled her fingers around the trinket.

"Of course you can. You can't give back this gift. It's been given, and I mean it." He got up and clasped it around her neck. Her skin burned where it touched, a good warmth. Richard helped her up, and when he put his arm around her shoulders this time, she leaned into it.

John tried to get used to the small device in his ear, his link to Clay once they were in. A heavy jacket covered his equipment; the pressure of a gun soothed his hands once again. The road traffic was heavy, teeming with people coming and going for the holidays. Their SUV trundled along the main road out of London, but switched to back roads soon, and Clay turned off the lights. John ran through plans, blueprints, and faces through his brain. He cradled a gas mask in his lap, though Clay hadn't told him why. Only that the mask may save his life, if things started to go very wrong.

When he came back around, Sherlock wasn't sure that he was alive at first. But everything ached and soon his eyes were able to differentiate between the dark wall and the shadows that flitted across it. Stiffly, he moved his neck to the left. He was tied down by rope to an old desk.

"Have a biscuit." Said the man behind him, and without asking, shoved it into Sherlock's mouth and he gagged. The man laughed and drew up a chair in front of him.

"I figure that it's not a problem that you see me now, because I will probably be the last thing that you ever see. Besides, I think you already know who I am." He leaned in closer to Sherlock. "So I'm going to ask the questions and you will answer them. Who are you working for? No identification of any sort, no professional equipment, just you. You infiltrated my facility effectively, using my guard's own clothing. You figured out the code to my doors. You know more than is good for you. So who is it?" Sherlock rolled his head around and sighed.

"I'm self-employed. Couldn't resist." Sherlock replied flippantly. The man's eyes narrowed under his thick eyebrows. He leapt up and slammed Sherlock backward. The desk fell to the side and the man leaned in and rasped, "Let's get started."

As Molly and Richard looked at the last few shops, Molly saw an item in the window and tugged on Richard's arm.

"You should wait out here while I go buy you something. I can't have your intuition following what I buy you." She ran over to the shop and tugged open the door. She brushed delicate ornaments with her fingers and finally found the watch. Tiny gears ticked inside and she was happy just to watch it go round.

"A nice choice, you think?" The shop owner asked. "I recently finished a new one in the back, if you would like to see."

Richard watched the strange man lead Molly away out of the corner of his eye, musing to himself. He didn't like it one bit for her to be out of sight, which is why, when ten minutes later, he regretted it when she didn't come back.

Small hands pinched Sherlock's cheeks. He stirred softly and looked into the familiar face of the street urchin that he had met almost what seemed like years ago. Juan looked concerned and flinched when Sherlock moved and the desk scraped against the ground, sound reverberating around the room. Juan shushed him and began to saw through the ropes with a small knife, twitching at every instant that any noise sounded out. Sherlock rolled out onto the floor and lay there until Juan tugged at his arm, whispering urgently to hurry. Juan sidled into the corridor and motioned for him to follow. Down they crept, until they reached a door.

"Go" Said Juan. Sherlock shook his head. "GO!" Juan repeated.

"I can't." Sherlock replied firmly. He ducked around Juan and ran. Juan tried to grab his sleeve but tripped. There was a crack. Juan lay on the ground, breathing hard. A tube lay open and Juan began to twitch. It didn't take long for him to curl up and turn ashen, his skin blistering here and there. The virus acted fast. So fast. Juan looked up at Sherlock one last time.

"GO!"

Richard broke into a sprint after he busted open the back door to only find a back alley with no Molly in sight. His breath came in spurts and he crouched down, trailing his finger along the footprints. A struggle. The size eight women's shoes vanished and the other pair trailed deeper into the city, as she was carried. They mixed heavily with others, but he tracked relentlessly, cursing his ignorance. But it was to no avail. Soon Richard was utterly lost and alone, frantically looking. He dropped to his knees. A small glimmer caught his eye in the nook of a small brick edifice. He spun the chain through his fingers and pulled out his gun and started to pick the lock.

John finished covering the SUV with branches and Clay checked their coordinates. Without a word, he stalked off into the woods. John almost had to jog to keep up with his stride. After about two hours, Clay held up his hand and peered through the branches. "Four minutes." He told John. Soon the air came abuzz with action as the guards relaxed a little and began to mill a little more freely. Then they started to head inside. Clay darted out from the trees and caught the door just barely as the last man went inside. After waiting thirty seconds, he cracked open the door a little wider, then shimmied inside, closely followed by John. They darted down the hall, staying in the shadows.

"My son…" Charles Montley looked down upon the body, shaken, breathing heavily into his gas mask. He smoothed Juan's hair back lovingly. "I thought- I thought he died." Stewart Barnes laid a hand on his shoulder.

"He was my son too, Charles. You knew that." Stewart breathed. Suddenly a flash of anger rolled across Charles' shoulders and he stood to face Stewart.

"No. Not in the same way. I adopted him. I cared for his needs until he vanished. I made a deal with you to help him. You're heartless. In fact, because of you, he really _is_ dead." In the heat of seconds, Stewart had Charles in a headlock as he struggled with a knife to stab Stewart with. With a flourish, Stewart snatched off his gas mask and watched Charles sink to the floor, rasping, then crawled over to his son. He tried to say something, but his breath just rattled in his throat.

Sherlock worked his way to the plane. Mechanics were finishing sewing up the underside and men were loading it with crates and fueling at the maximum of speed. Donning his good worker attitude, he picked up a crate and marched it on, set it down, and opened the door to the inside of the plane. Setting himself down in the corner behind another seat, he awaited the inevitable.

The door gave a satisfying click and Richard slowly inched into the shadows. He tiptoed down the hall, passing several apartments. Pressing a hand to the carpet, he felt which parts were still damp from snow tracked in by boots. The trail ended by a door on the right. A scrape at chest level lay fresh on the doorway. He tried to pick this lock as well, but found that it was firmly chained. He took a running start and bashed in the door. Stepping inside, the room was completely dark, and the weight of silence pressed deep on his spirit. For a moment, Richard thought that he had made a mistake. Then a crack sounded out as someone stepped out behind him and shot. He turned and saw the crook, smiling, and behind him, Molly, weeping behind her gag. Blood ran from his shoulder like a torrent. Richard took a few steps and fell.

The roar of an airplane engine rocked John off his feet. Clay startled beside him, and broke into a fast run toward the sound. The plane began to roll into the night air as they burst into the room. The vibrations unsettled the walls of the old building, and behind them, the crack of a crumbling foundation drove them forward. John ran as fast as he could, and with a giant leap, he closed his eyes and vaulted onto the wheel. The wheel gyrated like a beast underneath his feet and he trembled.

"JOHN" yelled Clay. John snapped to attention and leaned down to pick up his comrade who barely could grasp on. Clay searched for a hatch inside above the wheel, and when he found it, hauled his body in. The wheels began to retract inside the plane, and John hoisted himself in before his perch completely vanished.

Molly chewed her gag in desperation. Her kidnapper bound Richard's wound and locked the door behind him when he left. They were in the bathroom of the apartment and Molly looked around frantically. Budging over to the sink, she used her nose to open the mirror and saw what she wanted. Wriggling around her fingers, she was able to maneuver the razor over her leg and slowly saw through one of the ropes with restricted, painstaking strokes. Soon it was frayed enough that when she applied enough pressure, it snapped. Her bindings fell apart to some extent, freeing one hand, so she stripped off the gag and tried to rouse Richard. He moaned and curled up. The bandage would have to be changed soon. She had him freed in five minutes and was working on herself when voices came from the other side of the door.

Molly picked up the heavy lid to the toilet and when the door creaked open, bashed it over the side of the man's head. There was a muffled thunk and she helped Richard, who seemed to be fading in and out, get out the door. Halfway up the alley, he collapsed. At the mouth, passerby walked past calmly, that is, until she screamed at them and knelt down next to Richard, even when help arrived.

Stewart began to fly the plane northwest at top speed. He had enough vials to please his employer and would be there before dawn of the sixth morning. British air traffic was mostly canceled due to bad weather, and the atmosphere was furious and empty. All was well for a good ten minutes, but then the door cracked open and in the dust stood Clay. Stewart whirled around and stopped dead.

"Stewart, it's time for you to stop this." Clay spoke evenly and with conviction.

"You always have to be the one in control, don't you, Dad?" Stewart's voice seethed with a mixture of hatred and admiration for Clay.

"Clay? There's a man out here." John called from the other room. Clay didn't take note, he just turned and slammed the cockpit door shut and bolted it. They circled each other and Stewart yelled.

"You-you're the one who started this all! You and her!"

"And I'm here to finally end it! I know better now, but you turned diabolical, Stewart."

"It's time then." Stewart stopped. He held up a small bottle and flipped on a gas mask. Clay lunged forward but it was too late. The bottle smashed on the floor. Clay threw himself on Stewart, and pulled out a knife, slashing the gas mask to pieces. The plane began to tilt, and then to plummet down towards the shore.

John pointed the gun at the man who didn't really look surprised at all, but it was hard to tell, because bruises covered a lot of his face. When the plane tilted, however, the man leapt up and rushed to the other side of the room. He hunted through cabinets as though crazy. John slid up to the cockpit.

"Clay? Clay! We need to right the plane! We're losing height too fast!" There was no reply. About a dozen types of worry crossed John's mind at once. Before he could bang down the door, the bruised man suddenly grabbed John about the waist and soon they were tumbling down, down, down.

"He's still critical, there's a big loss of blood." The woman told Molly the next morning.

"I work here. I saved him. I am his good friend. I am a professional. So shut up." Molly huffed and pushed past the nurse, who frowned with very red lips over her canary orange scarf.

Richard was still asleep, so Molly didn't bother to wake him up. She took out a box and set it out on the table. The color was returning to his face, so Molly felt relieved. Everything was fine for now.

"Merry Christmas, Richard."

The soft powder fell around John as he walked downtown amid the Christmas décor. The city was quiet as families gathered together in their homes to celebrate the season. He stuck out his tongue and caught a few stray ones before moving on. He couldn't get his mind off of the man. He looked ever so familiar, but John couldn't place it. After they parachuted down, the man had simply turned and left, leaving John on a long stretch of land a few miles away from civilization. John arrived at his destination and rang. The door opened and Mrs. Hudson smiled and gathered him in a warm embrace. It was Christmas, after all.

"Where are you going? It's Christmas, Molly." She turned and broke into a smile. Richard sat up and she ran over and sat on the edge of his bed. He opened his gift, and tried on the watch.

"Which reminds me…" He said, "you're missing this." He pulled out her pendant and she leaned forward so he could put it on. Suddenly his eyes traveled upward, and Molly followed them. A green bit of shrubbery hung above.

"One of the nurses put that up. I've had to pretend to be asleep whenever they show up."

Molly leaned in and kissed him.

Sherlock watched the scenery pass before him from the back seat of the taxi. The vehicle pulled up to a grand house, instead of the bus garage.

"This is not my destination." He simply stated. The cabby got out and walked to his door.

"Nobody deserves to spend Christmas alone." She told him. Sherlock got out and they went up the steps. She pulled off her coat and handed it to him.

"I was wondering when I would get that back." He smirked. Irene laughed and pulled a bottle of wine out of one of the pockets.

"Thirsty?"


End file.
